


Sweet Esme

by TenWoolf



Series: Have One On Me [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Argent's adorable baby, Emotional Constipation, Kid Fic, Multi, Song fic?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 14:54:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2352371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenWoolf/pseuds/TenWoolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles walked in to Allison and Scott's empty house, dinner still on the table from the night prior, an array of Allison's laundry on the floor like packing an overnight bag took skill, and 27 messages on his voicemail.</p><p>Fic central to a very cute baby</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Esme

**Author's Note:**

> Based off the song "Esme" by Joanna Newsom 
> 
> Which is recommended listening.
> 
> I just really like that song.

There's a crispness in town as soon as the leaves start falling, the ether of summer fading through the veins as chlorophyll takes its vacation. It feels like the time to breathe before hibernating. Open doors are inviting and familial smells mingle with the coming of autumn.  
It's a noticeable difference and shift that Stiles feels when Scott calls him that morning, overly excited and forcibly pushing himself through the phone. Allison, after what seemed like a battle with her own anatomy, was pregnant and mother to a little peanut looking alien as proof on a sonogram print out. She had given it to Scott in a World's Greatest Dad mug, ribbons tied to the handle. As unlikely their future had appeared, one check box on a list of a final few had been marked.

Allison cooed like a mother, pressing fingers over baby magazines and coupons for diapers and formula that would expire before she went into her third trimester. Her belly grew quickly and Stiles took on the responsibility of rubbing her feet, making runs for ice cream and pickles, and shooing away her grabbing hands when she tried to tie her own shoes laces in vain. Stiles became the perfect midwife while Scott finished up his Masters, in time at least to lull his glowing wife to bed every night while she complained of heartburn.

Stiles worked for a tech start up, telecommuting across the state and occasionally making an appearance for Skype meetings when his overly friendly boss goaded him enough. He could code in his sleep, eating a steady diet of Redbull and casseroles meant for his father when hunger took them both over. Financial solvency kept Stiles in Beacon Hills, paying back student loans quickly with a high monthly stipend and only required by his father to keep the kitchen stocked from time to time. It was a perfect compromise save for the lonesome feeling of far away friends and teachers who still paid him mind in the grocery store. 

Allison was due in two weeks, aching in every nerve and organ like her baby was using her bladder as a squeak toy. Unwillingly, Stiles was dragged to the Beacon Hills Law Enforcement and Fire House Barbecue at lake Stow, promising to bring back Parrish's spicy briquette. By then Spring slowly curved the pathway of flowers to following the gaze of the sun and heat descended quietly as the temperatures rose to annual highs for May. In the sun, he forgot himself and the cellphone range was spotty.  
Stiles found the Allison and Scott's tiny two bedroom house with dinner still on the table from the night prior, an array of Allison's laundry on the floor like packing an overnight bag took skill, and 27 messages on his voicemail. 

Driving to the hospital, a cooler full of barbecue and various potatoes fixings as his passenger, he heard the documented tale of his goddaughter's arrival.

 **Scott 9:45 PM** : STILES, ALLISON'S WATER BROKE I'- /HONEY I GOT THE BAG- THE RED ONE? NO I- 

**Scott 10:11 PM** : Dude I don't know if you're still in the woods but we're at the hospital and ge- MOM, MOM, WE'RE OVER HERE. My mom's here and we're checking in I think. We really could use you man.

 **Scott 10:30 PM** So it turns out that women are in labour for a lot longer than animals are. She's having contractions but only dilated a couple centimeters so we mI- OW OW OW, OKAY HONEY, JUST THIN-OW ALLISON THAT REALLY HURTS JU-

 **Scott 10:39 PM** So I can't text you for the next week or so because someone may have broken a few ligaments in my hand. I don't know if you can really compare labor to being kicked in the balls but I wanna say that getting your hand broken is a solid comparison.

 **Scott 11:02 PM** Allison has only dilated about two centimeters and she's gotten really use to the contractions compared to before. I'll keep you updated man, figure you'll get cell reception at some point.

 **Scott 12:27 AM** Don't know why I thought I'd get you this time but Allison has a question. That girl who stole your bike last year, the like pink haired one, was her name Emily or Esme? 

**Scott 12:45 AM** Really hoping it was Emily. Otherwise, sorry bro.

 **Scott 1:14 AM** Allison almost got talked out of getting the spinal tap thing by this other mom in labor and then our doctor came back, who is totally awesome by the way, and laid down the law, it was so great. Seriously though, Emily right?

 **Scott 2:09 AM** BRING THE CIGARS, I'M GONNA BE A DADD....Oh my god, I'm so sorry, my wife just hit the dilation minim-, Sorry sorry, she's goi- I GOTTA GO MA- 

By the time Stiles reached the hospital he didn't need the play by play any longer, seeing Allison being rowed out in a black wheel chair, carrying a ray of light in her arms. The round pink soft cap she wore flushed out her colour, showing her so pale that her clear skin looked like porcelain. She was perfect. Holding her tiny hand in his palm, Stiles met his Goddaughter, Esme Melissa Argent McCall.

Esme was a talker, babbling nonsense and laughing at anything and everything. She was so expressive for a newborn, talking with her opening and closing palms, smiling even when smiling seemed impossible. When she screamed, an inevitable tool for newborn, she instantly stopped when cradled, when moved, when kissed on the forehead, when sung her lullaby.

Of course she had a lullaby, composed by her Godfather in soft sure tones, singing "Sweet Esme, Sweet Esme, oh oh Sweet Esme," over and over until her trembling eyes and kicking feet calmed. It was practically a party trick, first made at her birth party and welcoming home an exhausted mother with balloons, ribbons, gifts, and tupper ware containers of homemade meals and varying store bought salsas.

Derek decorated their home while the new happy parents slept off post-birth bliss and Stiles followed with Esme in his arms, fully expecting spit up on his shoulder. In concise short sentences Derek explained his aptitude for baby shower planning considering his array of family members and many nieces and nephews.  
And he did not disappoint, lining walls, tables, and chairs better than an television host off of WE tv and doing it in half the time, able to welcome guests that slowly arrived one by one. Gifts arrived wrapped, quickly denounced of their dressings and used to fill Esme's baby room, sparsely coated and in desperate need of unpacking. 

Erica and Boyd were there first, pulling out framed photos of illustrated wild life that Esme stared at in desperate confusion and a diaper genie none of them new how to use (and then a bottle of wine for the grown ups). Erica would gently run her thumb under Esme's feet, occasionally eyeing her and then glancing back at Boyd in heavy sighs and lame calls of, "Oh Vernon...".

Isaac was close to follow, an abundance of soft stuffed toys that would correlate to Esme's next 10 years of development and a mobile that he felt the need to explain in full detail as was explained to him by an evil looking man at the toy store. Esme was enamored by Isaac and followed him, blowing spit bubbles when he finally greeted her. He called her princess, far too scared of breaking her to actually brave touching her.

When Lydia arrived she brought books. Books on parenting, nursing, baby proofing, schools, development disabilities and special needs, emergency books, and every picture book imaginable for a little girl's childhood. She all but dropped them in Derek's arms, pushing him back to charge for Stiles and scooping up her Goddaughter like the only place she belonged was in the crook of her elbow. Like a light, she fell asleep in Lydia's arms as she was recited sweet phrases and names.

Esme's room was perfect by the end, distinctly decorated and placed, with the help of other party guests who came and spoke and left all while Scott and Allison slumbered. Only when did Esme begin to cry, hungrier than she had ever felt in the swell of her tears, did they rise, lazily going for hugs and kisses.

Stiles made off home, seeing the parents regaining strength after moving like husks of themselves and Scott constantly forgetting about his bandaged hand. The ride back for him was quiet and the urge to hear the rest of Scott's messages was heavy, almost wishing it had been the previous evening and he was driving to the hospital again. He wondered if Scott had said anything else important, words of wisdom or overwhelming concerns on fatherhood. He so would have wanted to be there for that, to see what it might be like for himself when the time came. If the time ever came. And when he slept that night all he wanted could think of was how he to be back there, with the changes in their lives and a sweet baby who held his hand like he was needed.

The rest of Spring was usurped by rain, flooding creaks deep in woods near the old Hale house and passed to the nature reservations. It was much needed rain, unexpected by forecasters and wildlife that turn up on the sill of Esme's window, perplexing her before jumping off to the garden below. Esme spent nearly all her time kicking about in various onsies, most with space ships or aquatic life adorning the patterns, staring at her mobile like it would either fly around the room or eat her. Or sleep, she slept quite a lot. Luckily so did her mother, resting off what was assumed as post-partem depression and found to simply be extreme exhaustion after expelling a child from her body and then expecting to physically care for it at every moment's notice. Stiles had alleviated the work, being the primary caretaker when Allison was too exhausted to move and Scott was working or finishing his Masters. 

This left Stiles with accurate baby bonding time, regaling Esme in the stories his father told him as a child and emptying the diaper genie whenever a free moment arose. The rain helped, time moving quickly until Scott came home and Stiles could work, passing out at his laptop because Stiles could still code in his sleep. But otherwise, taking care of the baby was a dream, spending most moments together with Esme in a front carrier while he worked. The sound of Stiles' heart beat calmed her, coaxing her to sleep.

More and more often, visitors showed up unannounced with some variation of a gift that Esme would eventually chew on. Her collection of toys meant for toddlers was slowly growing in the toy chest. Derek never brought her toys, perhaps knowing full well that diapers, formula, wet naps, and breast pump valves were much more needed. So he brought them, seldom and then much more frequently, making an appearance at least twice a week since Stiles would never call him to actually ask for anything.

He always arrived when Allison was asleep, or ducking in to the shower, or making a run on her own. It was always a delivery for Stiles followed by a prompted invitation to come in for coffee or lunch. Derek declined the first few times, but after edging further in to the doorway each time, he finally gave in. Derek was a simple pleasure for Stiles, always asking about his work, his father, or his plans for the summer. He asked everything he could except for the baby.  
The mythos surrounding Derek's inability to care about children was quickly silenced one day when Stiles handed Esme off to use the restroom, coming back to see Derek's flushed face resting against Esme's forehead. He bounced on the heels of his feet, the slightest contented smile stretched over his mouth.

Whenever Stiles brought up a visit from Derek Hale among the parents they would glance at one another and snicker, hiding common knowledge like it was gossip. They both were sworn to secrecy of which Stiles couldn't coax out of them, or rather that he didn't try.

Because he assumed it was about him, trading off when tensions had been high and he had been needed in favor of running off to college, collected in his thoughts and in desperate want of a life that didn't include Derek Hale. He'd adored him from afar, watching events unfold and pain break Derek on a near daily basis. Stiles came to the conclusion that if he put distance between them, his feelings would stop, that whatever curling sensation in his stomach tried to macrame his intestine would relax. He was, of course, wrong and every frantic phone call from Scott about imminent danger set back layers of woe for Derek, the center of all trouble it seemed. But being away seemed almost kind to them both. There was one less human to worry over and it was easy to feign interest from a distance even if his head was roaring with memories of Derek.

Returning to Beacon Hills had been hard for Stiles, accustomed to the companionship of unconcerned peers who piled in to his Jeep and went with him to drive in movies, beer runs, and music festivals in SoCal. Few friends were in town for more than the weekend and classmates had flocked to Silicone Valley when he went farther North.  
Life kept up easily, slowly but surely, away from the heat of pavements and back to where rosemary lined low garden fences, where it didn't take much distance to go blackberry picking, and folk music made everything feel like home.

Esme was a year old in the time it took breathe. She grew in to dresses, shapeless with princess sleeves that she pulled at constantly, her tiny fingers still too small to remove ribbons or buttons. Her first birthday party was an affair, streamlined by Derek's impressive coordination of streamers, balloons, and place settings. Themed with elephants. Because Esme loved Elephants. And anyone with curly hair, making the presence of Isaac and Erica mandatory.

Esme loved Erica, loosely grabbing through her tresses and attempting to put them in her mouth. She cooed and laughed when she learned they bounced, pulling and releasing the curls in mesmerizing feats.

The collection of friends lasted for hours, empty beer bottles littering tables and far too many abandoned plates of colourful cake remnants staining the trash. Into the early evening, the last of Esme's energy was spent on investigating party paper that her mother fashioned into hair bows like flowers with rough old bulldog, Avis. He had been adopted shortly after Esme was born, Erica and Boyd dipping their feet in to the hushed responsibility of parenthood. A limping hound, Avis was eager to amend the troubles of precocious children and eat the leftovers offered after meals. 

Erica and Isaac were good and tipsy, rubbing their faces against Esme's and goading her into trying to howl with them. Boyd watched with fascination, lazily scratching Avis behind the ears, telling Allison all about Erica's desire to get her teaching degree. Scott with a camera, flashing electric lights in the dimmed living room, was set on filling the entire sim card with pictures of his daughter.

And Stiles sought refuge in the kitchen, cleaning glasses and cutlery, seeing no need else where. He'd been with Esme when she was a day younger and he'll see her when she's a day older. He let the pack faun over their pup while she was still unable to understand shifting, full moons, and the dangers of mythic creatures. And he wanted them to enjoy how it felt to not have him there again, hoping it would be easy to leave once more.  


He was offered a full time promotion under the stipulation that he move to San Francisco, expenses covered, starting as soon as he said yes. And he was considering it, seeing no real ties to Beacon Hills anymore. What budding family wanted their Godfather living on their couch? And what father wanted his son still tucked in his childhood bed on the occasion he stumbled back home? What friends wanted that for someone? So he considered it, hoping to break the news when Esme's birthday concluded and each last balloon was deflated appropriately. 

On what he thought was the last stack of plates, a second pile appeared on his right with Derek apologizing quietly. He picked through the low cupboard drawers for a dish cloth, attentively drying dishes next to Stiles. 

"Hey thanks man," Stiles said, watching him for a moment and wondering how he knew where everything went. And he smiled when Derek chuckled at the World's Greatest Dad mug, previously filled with wine, that Scott was brandishing earlier for a toast.

Stiles flexed his hands, growing weak until the heat of the running tap. It came out of him like a confession, feeling like Derek was enough of a diary that he'd stay quiet about it for the evening, "So, I got a job offer..." He trailed off, losing steam.

"You have a job," Derek corrected, having listened to all those times he was invited in for coffee.

"I got a better job, by the same people. They want me working full time instead of by contract. Apparently, working for their competitors worries them," Stiles chuckled. Derek grinned with half his lips and nodded, remembering the dispute he had been told about between the three freelance gigs Stiles had going on at once, inadvertently giving company secrets to each of his bosses about the other company.  
"It's down in San Francisco, I think I'm gonna take it," Stiles admits thoughtfully, chewing his words. 

He doesn't notice for a moment when Derek looks at him, searching his face for signs that he's joking. Derek opens and closes his mouth, searching for some kind of word to combat.  
"You just got here," He finally says, unmoving.

Stiles glares, shifting eyebrows, "I've been here for almost two years, man. I mostly have my loans paid off, which was like, the whole point. I, god, I can't be 25 and still living at home, its weird enough I'm here all the time."

"You're here for Esme-"

"I know I'm here for Esme but I'm just her Godfather. Lydia's not here all the time, she's off actually getting on with her life." Stiles feels the frustration swelling in his head, the back of his neck and ears flushing pink. "I don't have anything but her keeping me here and she's not even my kid, Allison and Scott need to be her parents, not me."

"But you're....here fo-"

"I know! God I can't be though. Being here for her can't be the only thing I do. You guys have all these strengths and powers and I'm 

"No, I meant..." Derek trails off, haphazardly folding the towel like it mattered, thinking for the right words. "I meant that....I'm sorry," He sighs. And he leaves, hearing in the distance of the door and Scott calling at Derek if he's really leaving. Stiles won't hear from Derek for awhile. He doesn't push for contact, thinking it was better for the both of them.

Scott and Allison take it the hardest, trying to explain to Stiles how easy life in Esme's first year had been when he cares for her with the same intensity as a parent. But they can't convince him. If anything, it only serves as proof that he needs to leave. They can't become a family if relying on a third party is a necessity. They need family photos without Stiles and they need to hold their baby without wishing she could be passed off to him.

He leaves soon after, fitting his life in to the back of his jeep just as he did the first time leaving seemed like the only option. Goodbyes were easy, each of his remaining friends and pack tugging at his sleeves with the knowledge that he will be back again, unable to take the Beacon Hills out of him. 

His last day was spent in the parents home, stocking up bottles of baby food and diapers, and simply watching Esme play with soft pastel toys she had around. She could form words in small attempts at phrases, still remaining silent in the arms of her family. Allison would whisper "Mama" to her and exclaim "Oh No!" so frequently that the former was what left her voice first sometime ago. Scott would hold her, cradled so carefully, and say "love you, love you, love you," like a hoarse lullaby until she mimicked it and it became all she wanted to say.  
Stiles played patty-cake with her, shouting "love you" with each clap of their hands, always ending with kisses and the melodic notes of her laughter. That melody was broken by the ring of the door bell, sharp even in the back of the house where birds stifled the noises from front yard and street.  
Slinging Esme on his hip, her stuffed giraffe so adored that holes wore down the seams, Stiles answered the door and a breathe caught in his chest.

"Stiles," was how Derek greeted him, hands folded in a pattern of worry. His posture spoke more than he ever could, fearing shoulders slanted and hunched, knees bent ready to bolt for an escape, averted gazed saturated with shame. The bags under his eyes and perfectly tousled hair, pressed shirt, and clean nails said he was ready to face Stiles, hoping he could.

Stiles wordlessly invited him in, motioning with his head and excusing himself to put Esme down despite her want to be held by Derek, cawing out "Deh, deh, deh" as best she could.

There was a familiar silence with Derek that Stiles had become accustomed to, fitting in comfortably when he didn't have anything more to say and Derek ceased with provoking questions.

"When do you leave?" Is the first question, strained and quick like it was rehearsed.

"Tomorrow, I wanted to give Allison and Scott one more night with world's best baby sitter before I go. I've got an apartment all set up, just gotta get the check to them when I get there. Its unfurnished so I'm sleeping on the floor for the first night. Better than in the jeep, though." He chuckled, nervously scratching the back of his neck and catching the stain on his flannel sleeve from Esme's mashed peas lunch. He's going to miss the godawful smell of those baby food jars.

"Right," Derek mustered, staring at his fingers and passing over his nails.

"I'm gonna write to you..you guys, all of you. There's a monopoly on post cards there, like a dime a dozen, and Isaac's prized possession is that box of cards so I could add to that. But I'll write all the time."

"What will you say?" Derek asks, meeting Stiles awkward stare, unconsciously taking the smallest step forward.

"That I love you all," Stiles mutters, catching hand under his collar and biting his bottom lip.

Then Derek moves in, shuffling the weight of his feet like an unsure boxer, capping the distance between their bodies, mingling the scent of their excited fear, their anticipating breathes sweet against their lips, with unspoken words plastered to the back of their throats. 

It's not a kiss that breaks the tension, they don't sink in to the feelings of heat between them, they don't flinch at the touch of their skin meeting. Derek pushes their noses side by side, using their perfectly matched height to an advantage, gliding his clammy hand into Stiles slack fingers. Their muscles lock up, waiting for the unfortunate chill of separation.

They stay together, only for a moment, before realizing that they've both left one another.

In San Francisco, Stiles seeks out the kind of adventure that cities advertise to people ripe with indecision and lust for changes. He is terrified of the dark quickening fog and dense call of distant freight barges, as if the world might end at his sandy door step. But when the sun breaks through its a terrific sight, the slight pink and orange of sunsets cradling the ocean and melding together, it feels like a home. 

He spends his first month eating, refusing the stay cooped up in the office at all hours when the thrill of new surroundings and desolate fear of forgetting his home plague him. He put on more weight in a month than he did his first year of college, swearing off gorgeous city men and women until he had a point card from each and every last food truck.  
Work was easy, diving in to it at regular hours instead of 2 am every night since he, still, could code in his sleep. His coworkers eyed him suspiciously, noticing that he was just like every other bright eyed small town boy who escaped to the city and somehow he was familiar in that way.

He collected post cards to send. First from tourist stalls and souvenir shops, gathering every rendition of the Golden Gate Bridge and Coit Tower he could find, then harvesting the beautiful cards from sweet Chinese women selling hand painted water colours of cherry trees and wild lavender bushes at Farmer's Markets.

He mocked travel plans with Scott, telling him about the children's exhibits at the San Francisco Zoo and bars with happy hours and local beers, written on landmarks. He told Allison he was happy, in every way he could, on Haight Ashbury tie-dye Happy Face cards, because she worried him in ways others could not. Isaac was given prints from each Legion of Honor exhibit he went to, stocking up on glossy eyed European royal figure or expressionist portraits, writing out promises to take him if he's ever in the city to visit. Erica and Boyd got kitchy, and adorable, cards he found in packs at book stores of black and white photos of babies in floral headbands with loving goofy eyed dogs, providing visual reminders of what they deserve and what they already want. He sent his father cards of restaurants in North Beach, oozing marinara sauce over hand made pasta, with reminders to keep up his blood pressure down, because he's an asshole who loves his father.

For Derek, he lost track of words, tired of reciting the same boring news of food and work. So he wrote poems, idiotic little limericks that cracked his smile and then thoughtful beautiful verses from the chapbooks he flipped through in book stores of Bay Area poets living and dead. He scrawled them as best he could in fine hand writing on stamped cards from artist vendors who danced when they worked their booths in the cool bay breezes.

He spent his rent on stamps alone, not even realizing when holidays sent him home, arriving with the upturned mailbox flag and welcoming aroma of Thanksgiving and Christmas. He asks of Derek when home, never hearing more than the general commotion of "He's doing well, out of town a lot" before they settle down for a meal.

Esme has grown like a weed, lanky arms thinning while her cheeks remain chubby and rosy, the back of her eyes holding the cub of a wolf still too young to howl. She remembers Stiles, grasping at his ears and cooing against him when he sings to her, "Sweet Esme, sweet Esme, oh oh so sweet Esme." She knows half his name, the first rounded syllable by memory. But she knows Derek's name, clamping down on the 'k' of it like she'd been taught to a thousand times before. 

The postcards slow when his first year in San Francisco comes to a close, cutting contact to finer messages and concise invitations. He wants his friends, his pack, to see his new city and the life he's molding for himself rather than creates windows out of paper for them to hold momentarily.

He sends postcards and letters infrequently now, except to Derek. Derek has mountains of cards, letters encased in sighs, and care packages with his scent even laced in the sealing tape. They are diary entries to a life he lacked with Derek. What seem all for nothing at times. He's never gotten so much as a letter from Derek. But it's fine. Diaries aren't suppose to talk back.

He hopes that Derek's not alone all the time. Stiles is, but work preoccupies him, cutting his days in to hours from start to finish interspersed with sleep. So he hopes a different routine for Derek, not spent entirely in his sparsely lined loft or the desperate memories of his family home. He hopes Derek spends days thinking about his future, about a career or goal, about a life excluding misery. He wishes he had a window, made of paper, into Derek's life.

And that's what Stiles writes, on the back of a photograph he took at Ocean Beach when the kite fliers were showing off. He asks Derek where he would go if not Beacon Hills. What would he say when he wrote to Stiles.

Esme's birthday comes round again, Stiles has the date remembered like a note on the back of his palm. It's on a whim that he drives back home, holding on to a travel mug like it willed the car forward. It might as well have with Stiles too exhausted after two crammed work days to make up for the time off. But it feels right, being on the highway again detouring through scenic routes. The sprawling red woods, farmland graced and partitioned with wire fences, minuscule towns in the grooves of winding roads where radio signals couldn't reach him. It's different from the trips back in college to home, hardly even a trip when speed was the preferable, stopping once to drop off a classmate in Oakland and once to urinate. Going home feels like going home this time.

They're surprised at his unexpected return, not in the heat of excitement but... terror, absolute terror, as if he's done something so wrong it sends Scott in to a panic.

"StilES? WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" Scott practically crawls out of his own skin, covered in Hello Kitty stickers and wearing an apron dabbled with cake frosting. Esme is running to the door, throwing her hands up and yelling "STILES!", proud and thrilled to see him. She was equally covered in stickers and food remains, the sides of her mouth particularly encrusted in chocolate and powdered sugar.

"Now that is the reaction I was counting on," He muttered so matter of factly, picking up Esme and showering her in kisses.

"Stiles Stiles, what are you doing here?" Scott demands, trying to keep his voice from breaking. He's followed in delayed unison by the rest of the pack, appearing from the kitchen all engrossed with his arrival as if it was unfortunate and just plain wrong.

"It's my goddaughter's birthday, I didn't wanna miss it before she's all boy crazy and were-wolfed out," He states, insulted, protecting Esme's happiness to see him with a hand to her ear.

"Stiles, you're suppose to be in San Francisco." Isaac barks up, palming his pocket to search for his phone.

"I'm usually in SF, yes, but again, tiny princess birthday," He points to Esme who plays with his over grown hair, perplexed by the new colour and highlights.

"No you- Stiles you're suppose to be in San Francicso," Allison reiterates, annunciates with her hands.

"I'm missing something," Stiles says, searching their faces for some kind of answer to make itself obvious.

But then Scott sighs, so heavy and hurt that Stiles feels he's done so much wrong, and says, "Isaac, call Derek, it's only been about three hours, he should still be on the way there."

And then it hits him, like an epiphany. "Did he get my letter?" Stiles asks, so quietly, not even realizing that the door is still wide open, or that Esme shivered in his arms, or that the pack still stared on in collective disappointment.

They all convinced Derek to go, one by one as he sought out guidance for the first time in his adult life. He couldn't interpret Stiles' photograph on his own. Allison said it was an invitation, Scott said it was concern, Boyd and Erica smiled at one another and held Derek's hand, Isaac just said "go get him".

It took convincing but it didn't take much and it didn't take long, packing his car with nothing but what he should say to Stiles. Fueled by years of unsaid thoughts as held together by the binding glue of a diary. 

But Stiles went and ruined it, ruined what could possibly be the sweetest act of kindness he's witness. It is kind to be loved by someone who releases their hold for that persons sake, it is kind to be loved by someone who takes stories and anecdotes and weaves them into laughter, it is kind to be loved by a family that says you are good enough to be loved, it is kind to be loved enough for grand gestures.

And Stiles hopes that he can reclaim that, driving to Derek's loft in a mad flurry, biting his nails to satiate the need to eat his own hand. The spare key is still in the hide-away spot, not moved from when he was in high school and first place it.

Stiles never counted all of what he sent Derek, not even remembering the details of what he sent. He slapped stamps on everything from boxes to blind bags, happily writing down the address each time, curving the letters in Derek's name lovingly.

Derek knew exactly what was sent over the last year, every unexpected post card, hand written letter stained with coffee, beaten up photograph, envelope of thin books, and box of trinkets. He knew because he kept them, proudly displaying them. The exposed brick wall kept a nailed corkscrew board filled with everything. Every last thing. The brown dandelion card, the wolf moon t shirt, the snapple lid necklace, the rag doll and rooster hat from China Town, the sand dollars from Ocean Beach, the photos he took of city hall, the library, Stern Grove lake, Opera at the Metreon, his work space, his apartment, and one photo he didn't take, right in the middle. A photo copy from his senior year book, he remembered the faux smile he gave, nudged by the photographer, "You'll see this photo decades from now, make it a smile!". The edges were bent, cut to imperfections, but well loved. 

He takes the yearbook photo down, smiling more now than he felt he had the capacity to then. He takes everything down, lining the memories from the first postcard of the Golden Gate he bought, scrawled with a message of intent. He maps out how Derek saw his life that year, feeling like he could run out of space for all the physical proof of all he said.

And with hours passing in a speed he hadn't expected, the click of the front door echos. 

"Stiles?" Derek calls out, unsure tones in his throat accounting for lost hours. And the sight of him, clutching the soaring kite photo so tightly that old creases from traveling in the post or traveling in Derek's hands were indistinguishable. 

It was the last piece, the last discernible piece of evidence, the last swaying testament.

Derek breathes easy, the long drive catching up to his nerves, recounting each and every probable thought in his head. He starts out, as if repeating what he's told himself a thousand times, "I'd go to you, if I wasn't here. I'd go to you. I'd say to you that I love, Stiles. That's...all I-"

Stiles kisses him with the intensity of a burn, unnoticed until the sensation shoots through his body and he cannot help but act upon it. His hands sink to their rightful place at Stiles' hips, pressing their torsos together. He lets go of the photo, forgetting his prepared words, limply following the movements his head told him to.

\---

Esme turns seven on the brightest day in spring, able to tell every person in her family and pack that she loves them. She uses the words like a gift, saying them in each embrace, hold of her hands, kiss on her cheek. She wishes love on every living creature she'll ever think to encounter. 

The pack envelope her, lead by Esme's direction, to sing Uncle Stiles' song instead of Happy Birthday. Carefully they hum and mash notes, melting harmony over the sparsely lined candles on Esme's birthday cake. It's a wreck of a song but it makes her happy, bottled joy where the wolf cub once hid behind her eyes.

Domestication has made most of them happy, Erica and Boyd opening up to Allison about their infertility challenges while being perfectly happy with their adoptive wolf pups. Isaac fitting the love of his life in to the places where the pack will accept her, easing the stories of wolves into every day conversation.

All the while, Stiles and Derek enjoyed the complexities of being together. The acts of speaking and listening became tasks, formed in their fingertips and lips between kisses and the passion exuded by being together.  
Stiles telecommuted for as long as he could, eventually freelancing for Beacon Hills County's abundance of web development seminars and core classes. He can still code in his sleep but teaching is more time consuming, fulfilling in every aspect he didn't expect.

They made a home out of the humming of a baby and the kindness of time, figuring out how to plant their roots however they could.


End file.
